by Angus Wells
I said, “Yes. I know that, but even so …”
She was percipient; she said, “What other choice do they leave us? With the Sky Lords, it’s kill or be killed, nothing else.”
I sighed and said, “I know; and I’ve done my share. But even so … sometimes I grow weary of it. Sometimes I wish it were otherwise.”
“But it’s not,” she said.
I thought her about to say more, but then Barus stood before us, a callused finger pointed at my chest. “Do you ply your trade, Storyman,” he said, “and entertain us with a tale.”
His breath was perfumed with the wine that thickened his tongue, and it was less request than demand. From the corner of my eye I saw Krystin stiffen, her features contoured with irritation. I had no great liking for his manner, but neither any wish to provoke an argument with refusal: I nodded curtly and climbed to my feet.
The others of the troop were of more genial manner than the surly jennym and welcomed me with enthusiasm as I settled by their fire. Krystin joined us, and I paused a moment, selecting the tale. I decided they should hear of Ramach and the battle of Cambar Wood: it fit my odd mood well that I should tell of a victorious aeldor leaving the hurst a monument to the fallen. My audience was dutifully silent as I spoke, and I ended with my own experience there.
When I was done, Barus snorted and said, “Foolishness! The God-cursed Sky Lords deserve no monuments. The flames are enough for them.”
I said, “The aeldor Ramach deemed them brave; worthy foes.”
“Then Ramach was a fool.” He reached for the wineskin, tilting it to his mouth. “The Sky Lords are a blight on our land, and I’d not honor them.”
Krystin said, “Barus,” her tone a warning. He turned away, refusing to meet her eyes, and she looked to me with a smile. “Do you give us another, Daviot?”
I said, “As you wish,” and told them of Fyrach and the Great Dragon.
I am not sure why I chose that particular story. Perhaps I felt it occupied ground sufficiently neutral that Barus should be mollified. Perhaps I looked to investigate their feelings in regard to the dragons. Whichever, the one worked, and the other told me no more than I knew already. All listened attentively, and all save Barus voiced approval when I was done. One even said, “What allies the dragons would make now, eh?”
That elicited laughter, in which I joined, though I then said, “Could we but find them again and persuade them to our cause.”
Krystin said, “Yes. Were they not dead.”
I said, “Can we be sure they are? Might some not live still?”
The commur-mage shrugged, offering no response.
I said, “Of course, to find them would mean crossing the country of the wild Changed.”
She gave me a look then that was oddly familiar. I recognized it in a memory: Rekyn had worn that same expression once. So, too, had Rwyan, when I had spoken of my fantasies, though then I had been more concerned with other matters, and not so much interested in plumbing her knowledge as the secrets of her body.
“Storyman’s fancies,” Barus grunted. “Dragons? The dragons are gone, and no Trueman dirties his feet in the soil of Ur-Dharbek.”
“The wild Changed live there,” I said, “and surely dirt is dirt, wherever it lies.”
The jennym spat and found a second wineskin. When he had swallowed—deep—he said, “Changed dirt is not for Truemen. Who’d consort with such beasts? The Changed are animals, no more. The God knows, they were created for dragon fodder, and they’re good for nothing else.”
It was too much: into my mind’s eye came an image of Urt, who was certainly no animal, whose company I much preferred to this uncouth fellow. I said, “In Durbrecht I named a Changed my friend.”
It was a challenge and recognized as such. Silence fell, and for a moment it seemed even Barus was lost for words. He tossed the wineskin aside and stared at me. His expression suggested he looked on an abomination. When he spoke, his voice was cold for all its wine-rough slurring.
“Are you then a Trueman? Or did your mother lie with beasts?”
In the timber an owl sounded. The crackling of the fire was suddenly very loud. It seemed the wind held back its breath. I heard a horse nicker softly. My staff lay at my feet; Barus’s long blade was sheathed and rested across his thighs.
Krystin said, “Barus! You go too far.”
He smiled, not looking at her but straight at me. I thought he seemed more bestial than any Changed. I met his stare and said, “No, my father was a Trueman. Aditus, he is called.” I was pleased my voice remained so calm. I paused deliberately and asked him, “Did you know your father’s name?”
It was a crude sally, but subtlety was wasted on such as he. Someone chuckled nervously. Barus’s face flushed dark, his lips thinned in a snarl of unalloyed rage. I saw his right hand close about his sword’s hilt. I saw the blade slide out a little way. I tensed.
“Enough! I tell you both—enough!”
Krystin had not moved or touched her own sword. She had no need—there was such authority in her voice we both froze. I felt immediately embarrassed that I had allowed my irritation a hold, that I had sunk to the jennym’s level. Barus rammed his sword home in the scabbard. His eyes were narrowed, as if he fixed my face in his memory, and there was the promise of murder there.
“Barus, I’ll not Warn you a second time. You insult a guest of Tryrsbry Keep, and do you continue you’ll answer to Yrdan. After me.” It seemed her eyes shone as she glared at him. I thought of the two, it should likely be her punishment was the worse. Then she turned that blue gaze on me. “And you, Daviot—is this fitting for a Storyman? To trade insults like some common tavern brawler?”
I shook my head and said, “No. My apologies, lady.”
“I’m no lady,” she returned me, echoing Rekyn, “and what apology you offer is best directed at Barus, not me.”
I caught my refusal before it was voiced and said, “My apologies, jennym.”
Barus said nothing. Krystin said, “Barus …”
He scowled, less like a warrior in that moment than a willful child caught in some mischief.
“Barus …”
He said, “My apologies, Storyman,” and promptly rose to his feet, kicking the wineskin aside as he strode into the shadows.
Krystin rose and went after him. I wondered what transpired between them. I could not believe they were lovers, nor could I hear what was said. I felt a hand nudge me and turned to find the wineskin proffered. I murmured thanks and swallowed long. The soldier who had passed it me said, “Barus makes a bad enemy, Storyman. Best watch your back do you linger in the keep.”
I nodded and asked him, “Why does he take such objection to me?”
The soldier glanced away, ascertaining Barus was gone out of earshot before he said, “He’d bed our commur-mage, would she but have him.” He chuckled and winked lewdly. “But she’ll not, and that puts him in foul temper. The worse that he sees the way Krystin favors you.”
Late the next day we arrived in Tryrsbry. It was a sizable place, a good many leagues inland, the town spreading across the mouth of a fertile valley, the keep perched above, a little way up the north wall. A river descended the slope there, its course shifted to moat the hold, and we clattered across a wooden bridge into the yard. It was not so grand a keep as Thyrsk’s tower in Arbryn but more akin to Cambar, plain for all I could see this was a wealthy bailiwick.
We left our mounts to be stabled, Krystin taking me with her to meet Yrdan. Barus prowled like some foul-tempered black dog alongside. Since that night we had not spoken, and whilst he had offered no further insult, he did not conceal his dislike. I was minded of the friendly soldier’s advice—to watch my back.
The aeldor’s welcome went some way to compensate for his jennym’s animosity. We found him in private chambers, engaged in a game of catch-dice with his wife and two daughters, who—fortunately for them—favored their mother. Yrdan was an ugly man. He wore the typical dark locks and swarthy
skin of a westcoaster, but his nose was huge and hooked, and his jaw excessively broad, displaying twin rows of overlarge and entirely separate teeth as he smiled. He was short and his legs were bowed, so that he must tilt back his head to find my eyes. In stark contrast to his looks, his temperament was sunny, and he greeted us with a cheerful roar, embracing Krystin as if she were kin, shaking my hand, and shouting for a daughter to pour us ale before he took report of our encounter with the Sky Lords.
Krystin’s account was succinct, and when she was done, Yrdan said to me, “I bid you welcome, Daviot Storyman. You’ve bed and board in Tryrsbry as long as you choose. Now, do you tell the tale?”
I agreed readily and told him all I had witnessed. After, he nodded and said, “That was well done,” then laughed as he slapped his malformed thighs. “I’d not have managed such a race. And nor shall you again. Do you take that horse as my thanks-gift?”
I said, “You are kind, my lord.”
He returned me, “Yrdan, Daviot.” Then he winked: “And, am I honest with you, there’s few with much liking for that mare, and she with none for anyone.”
“She has something of temper,” I agreed solemnly.
Yrdan bellowed laughter and beckoned his wife and daughters forward. “I am remiss,” he said. “I forget my courtly manners in this rough place. So …”
His wife was named Raene, and she stood a head taller than her husband. She possessed that sultry handsomeness common to the women of the West Coast, and her beauty was emphasized by his homeliness. I noticed, however, that when her eyes fell on him (which was frequently), they were filled with an absolute adoration. The daughters—Danae and Kyra—were as lovely as their mother, of marriageable age (I soon learned they were courted by the sons of several neighbors), and of dispositions akin to their father’s. It was a cheerful audience, marred only by Barus’s darkly looming presence.
Soon enough, though, the jennym left to attend his soldierly duties, and Yrdan suggested Krystin show me to my quarters. The commur-mage led me to a chamber on an upper level, a simple room but furnished comfortably and with a splendid view along the valley. She left me there, promising to send servants with hot water, and her company to the dining hall. I saw that her chambers were across the corridor.
Not long after, four Changed brought in a tub. I thanked them, seeking in their faces and their replies some indication as to the keep’s attitude to their kind. Yrdan and his family had treated me well, but I was a Trueman, and I thought perhaps their benevolence did not extend to those beast-bred, that perhaps Barus expressed the common feeling.
The servants, however, seemed quite at ease, answering me with smiles, and I decided that the jennym was likely extreme in his views. Indeed, this was confirmed when I repaired to the dining hall. The Changed I saw there appeared happy, exchanging pleasantries with the men of the warband and their womenfolk; all save Barus and a handful of others, whom they treated with a wary deference. Yrdan accorded them much the same casual courtesy as he dealt the few Trueman servitors, and—Barus and his cohorts apart—I thought the Changed well served in this friendly keep.
It was a fine meal, and I enjoyed it and the company in equal measure. I was honored with a seat at the high table, between Danae and Kyra, whose questions occupied me throughout. They were a flirtatious pair, and I was grateful for the lessons taught me in Durbrecht, that I was able to meet their sallies without discomfort or offense: I had no wish to upset so genial a host as Yrdan. Even so, I was somewhat relieved when the aeldor rescued me from their attentions with the request I entertain the hall with a story or two.
I chose the tale of Mallach the Swordsmith, and that of Aedyl Whitehair, and both were received so well, a third was called for. I spoke of Corun and the Witch of Elandur, and the hour was late before I was done.
Yrdan called a halt then, thanking me for my tales and repeating his offer of hospitality for so long as I cared to remain in Tryrsbry. I told him I would linger there awhile, for now that I had a sound horse to carry me south, I might journey more leisurely. He chuckled at that, and winked, and tapped his massive nose, declaring me caught by his cunning gift. Even on such short acquaintance, I liked this aeldor greatly.
The candles that lit the corridors were guttered low as Krystin and I returned to the floor we shared. The commur-mage had shed her black and silver leathers for a gown of dark blue, and her hair was bound up in a net of silver set with little beads of jet. Her neck was long and slender, and she now appeared entirely feminine, without hint of the martial air her travel gear afforded. We came to my door and halted.
I said, “Goodnight, Krystin.”
She gave no answer, only looked at me. In the dim light her eyes were dark, unfathomable. She put a hand to her head, removing the net, and shook her hair loose. I stood silent, watching the play of light over her blond tresses. She took my hand and drew me toward her chambers; and I did not resist.
There was an outer room lit by a single lantern, across which she led me to a sleeping chamber. That was dark, save for the faint moonlight entering through the open window. It fell on a wide bed. She closed the door behind us and faced me.
I said, “Krystin …”
I am unsure how I might have finished that sentence because Krystin placed her hands around my neck and kissed me, and she needed no sorcery save her presence after that. It had been so long since last I lay with any woman.
She told me, after, that I spoke Rwyan’s name. I apologized, and she said it did not matter, though I think it did, and in those later nights I was more careful and said only “Krystin.”
“Shall this not make problems for you?” I asked.
She lay within the compass of my arms, her cheek against my chest, her hair a soft golden fan that shifted gently as she spoke.
“I’ve no lover in this keep.” Her breath was warm against my skin. “Before, in Durbrecht—but here, no.” “Barus would have you,” I said.
She snorted laughter and rose on her elbows to rest her weight on me, all down the length of my body. I felt myself begin to stir again as she spoke.
“We cannot always have what we want, eh?” Her smile was mischievous and seductive. “And poor Barus shall never have me. You, though …” Her hand moved, sliding between us. She laughed again, softer. “You, though, Daviot …”
Later, as the first pale hint of dawn lit the sky, she said, “Likely Barus shall not dare offend you further. Surely not within the precincts of the keep. But still, perhaps best you stay close by me.”
I nodded gravely and said, “I shall, Krystin. I shall endeavor to remain as close as possible.”
“How close?” she asked. “Do you show me?”
I did, and then we fell asleep, our limbs entwined.
It was full light when we woke, and later ere we rose to dress and break our fast. I was very hungry.
We went smiling to the dining hall and begged some bread and tea from the Changed servants, who were by now preparing for the midday meal. Those of the household we encountered smiled as they saw us, and when the warband found us deep in conversation they chuckled and muttered amongst themselves. I could guess the direction of their comments. Barus saw us and scowled blacker than ever, but he said nothing to me or Krystin, only found himself a chair and shouted for ale. Nor did Yrdan or Raene do more than smile benignly on us, though Danae and Kyra both giggled together and gave us long, appraising looks, as if they shared some secret with us.
That afternoon Krystin showed me the town. It was, as I had surmised, a prosperous place. There were taverns and squares where, in the days that followed, I pursued my calling, crowds gathering to hear my tales. It seemed my reputation grew, and that was a boon, for it enabled me to speak with more of the common folk, to assess their mood, as the College had ordered. I found them mostly careless of the Sky Lords’ threat, for there had been no raids in this vicinity and they trusted in Yrdan and his commur-mage to protect them. They had heard of the craft that approached Brynisvar; t
hat it had been destroyed with all its crew served to reinforce their confidence. I thought them complacent. I thought this West Coast had been fortunately sheltered.
I voiced my thoughts to Yrdan and for a while saw his mien grow serious. There was, he agreed, a feeling on this side of Dharbek that the Sky Lords were no great danger. “But fear not, Daviot,” he said. “Does it come to fighting, the West Coast shall take its part. Meanwhile”—he smiled and tapped that massive nose, leaning closer as if to impart a secret—“Kherbryn promises us engineers, that we may build those war-engines that defend the cities of the east. Gahan sends them to us even now, I hear.”
I was relieved to hear such news and thought once again that perhaps I took too much on myself, assumed a weight of responsibility beyond my station. Surely it was vanity to think that I alone was aware of the terrible danger the Sky Lords represented. These aeldors were not fools, nor blind; neither were the sorcerers. To think I was the only one who saw the danger was to insult them: I vowed to curb my ego.
So the days passed, happily. If aught marred them, it was my curiosity, for I retained my desire to question Krystin on the matter of the wild Changed.
She was not, of course, always with me. Three times she rode out after sightings of the airboats, and she had duties to which she must attend, and some of those private. But when we were apart, she contrived to leave me in company of friends or find some task for Barus that ensured we should not meet. As much as she was able, she stayed with me, and there grew between us a friendship perhaps more lasting than our transitory passion. It was on that that I relied for satisfaction of my curiosity.
We had ridden out one morning, along the valley into the wilder country beyond. We took with us food and a skin of wine, and when the hot summer sun approached its zenith, we halted where a brook traversed a little tree-girt meadow. I remember the sky was a cloudless blue, and the lazy buzz of insects. Our horses grazed some little distance off, apart—my mare had, it seemed, no more fondness for her own kind than for mine. Krystin and I stretched languidly on the sward, sharing the wineskin. I felt wonderfully comfortable.
